I lose my virginity in a way that surprises even me. It is unassuming. Comes without dilemma and as naturally as the break of dawn. It is easy. Painless. Safe. It takes place in a house with parents, albeit not my own, but the comforting presence of adulthood brings a subconscious assurance to the proceedings.
As an Egyptian Muslim girl, losing my virginity outside wedlock, to a white, Yorkshire boy who was unsure whether God even existed, was one of the sweetest moments of my life.
My experience, however, was not the norm. When I finally sailed down from the cloud of new awareness and womanhood I had ascended to, my conversations with Muslim girlfriends told me that my blithe happiness was a far cry from their own emotions and I realised something was wrong. ‘Did you feel guilty?’ was the first question asked, followed by, ‘did you pray after?’
In truth, I knew I had crossed a line. I, like my friends, had been raised on the collective teachings of an Islamic community that argued sex only happened within the parameters of marriage, and any kind of relationship with boys was ultimately haram. I was not only raised on those teachings, but I also believed and bought into them, adamant that I would lose my virginity on my wedding night with my husband.
It’s hard not to adopt this narrative when the lessons of chastity are so intricately woven, both consciously and subconsciously, throughout the subtle workings of Islamic spaces.
Add in the narrative that sex is haram – and of course anything haram is punishable by hellfire – and it’s easy to understand why so many women discuss sex, shame and guilt in the same sentence
In short, we have grown up in environments that have consistently told us that men and women don’t mix, a constant spotlight on the division between the two. Add in the narrative that sex is haram – and of course anything haram is punishable by hellfire – and it’s easy to understand why so many women discuss sex, shame and guilt in the same sentence. They have become so tangled with one another that they’re now part of a single conversation. And the reason they have become part of the same conversation is that you cannot talk about sex in Islam without also encountering culture and the patriarchy.
Nothing exists in isolation and Islam’s theological rulings on sex are no exception, prone to cultural distortions that lead to a skewed perception of sexuality, especially female sexuality.
I’ve heard stories of marriages breaking down because of women unable to enjoy or accept a sexual relationship, or even years of painful sex because of the tension created by fear and guilt. Then, of course, there are the women who were never spoken to about sex at all, their chastity and virginity glorified until their wedding nights, when they were suddenly expected to perform with the sexual prowess of an accomplished lover.
The absence of female pleasure from conversations about sex is keenly felt within Muslim communities, but not limited to them. No one is lucky enough to escape the patriarchy, and as such the mentality that female bodies are there to give pleasure as opposed to receive it is a long- standing one.
Combine this with the cultural shame we’ve imposed on women, and do it all in the name of Islam, and you’re in danger of creating swathes of frustrated women, fearful of sex, too ashamed to talk about it, and unable to access pleasure.
My first introduction to sex was via Google and watching porn, which – as we all know – is rarely about female empowerment or pleasure and more often about female submission. I remember using the handle of a toothbrush to poke around to see what would happen – would it make me moan like the women in those videos? Needless to say, it did not, and I found the entire experience more confusing than anything else.
My sexual education was a blur of videos, misinformation, miscellaneous objects, hidden fumbles with boys and finally a boyfriend who I loved, but who I had to keep hidden for over a year of our three- year relationship.
If the Islamic community had it their way, I would still not have experienced pleasure, or a loving relationship, because I’ve yet to find a husband
I’m thirty years old now, unmarried and single. I’ve loved and been loved but never found the right person to marry and make a life with. If the Islamic community had it their way, I would still not have experienced pleasure, or a loving relationship, because I’ve yet to find a husband.
The way our communities are dictatorial about marriage is also problematic. I fell deeply in love with a boy outside Islam and if I could have, I would have married him at the time.
However, like other Muslim girls, I had been raised with the commonly accepted interpretation of the Quran that states a Muslim man can marry a non- Muslim woman, but a Muslim woman cannot marry a non- Muslim man. I was in an impossible situation, hiding my relationship, unable to talk to the adults I knew about it, and feeling guilty in the knowledge that the boy I loved wasn’t welcome in the spaces I existed in – whether that was at Eid prayers, amongst my Pakistani family or visiting my Egyptian relatives overseas.
This man was a foreigner and not somebody I, as a ‘good Muslim girl’, should ever be with. Those narratives are hopelessly difficult to resist, and we are all affected by the habits, traditions and beliefs of our communities; I’m no exception to those rules. I often look back and wonder whether, if my community had opened their arms to him, if we’d known that sometime soon we could be married, if there were people I could talk to about marrying outside the religion, things would have been different for me.
I wonder if I might have waited to have sex with him, safe in the knowledge that we had all the time in the world. I wonder if we’d be married now, surrounded by a tribe of children. I wonder if I would have been protected from the heartbreak and pain that came as a result of trying to please a community that demanded I live by their rules only.
We need to understand the ways in which men and women are actually living today, as opposed to how we wish they were living, and learn how to navigate modernity and Islam together, especially when it comes to conversations around sex and sexuality.
People are having it, have been having it, will keep having it, regardless of whether or not you tell them it’s a sin. Fire and brimstone theology has rarely been conducive to spirituality and faith.
I want us to stand up and into our power as women and glory over the incredible things our bodies can do.
I want us to welcome pleasure into our skin and realise that religion is not just for the few, but for the many, and that it also comes in many forms. The fluctuations and harmonies of our physicality do not bar us entry to spirituality and faith, but rather remind us of our relationship with the divine.
This is an edited extract from 'A Gender Denied: Islam, Sex and the Struggle to get Some' by Salma El-Wardany, published in I edited by Mariam Khan (Picador) available now.
